Fine
by Muffintine
Summary: [complete] [sterek] "I said I was fine, Derek," he snaps, the small uptick in his heartbeat giving him away. Fine. Derek hates that word.


The way Stiles moves is stilted and stiff as if his body is foreign to him—unfamiliar. His brows pinch downward, lips pressed tight as he settles his right palm flat against the cold metal hood of his jeep. He stands there, saying nothing. His body stills, heart beating in a disconcertingly slow rhythm as he just _stares_. There's a fragility to him now; a soft, broken crease to what used to be a clean and unblemished slate. Stiles exhales, breath shaky as his eyes flicker to Derek—gaze hallow and tired. He nods, acknowledging Derek's presence before he turns to Scott, haggard demeanor fading away instantly into an unsteady protective wall that projects a calm façade.

Scott frowns at Stiles, expression worried as he places a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're _sure_ you're okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles replies, voice level; practiced. "Yeah, Scott. I'm _fine_. I promise." He smiles, but Derek doesn't miss the slight tremor in his lips. "It's alright, man," he continues, tone soft. "You can go check on Kira, I'm—I'm not going to fall apart or whatever shit you're thinking the moment you take your eyes off me, okay? Besides," his eyes shift to rest briefly on Derek. "You're not leaving me here by myself."

Scott looks doubtful.

"Just go, dude," Stiles urges, pushing at Scott playfully. "I'm fine. _Really_."

"Alright," Scott relents, frowning. "But call me if you—if anything happens. I'll be here right away." Scott pauses and squeezes Stiles' shoulder. "Promise me you'll call if something happens. I'm serious, Stiles. _Promise_ me."

"Yeah, yeah, I promise," Stiles replies with a put upon huff. However, a fleeting, genuine smile crinkles the bow of his lips as he stares back at Scott.

Scott seems to have an internal battle with himself before he gives in, returning Stiles' smile with one of his own. "Cool." He turns to glance at Derek, and Derek understands the unsaid _watch out for him_ that oozes from the heat of his gaze. Derek inclines his head and Scott nods in reply before he's bounding away.

The moment Scott's gone, Stiles leans up against his jeep and looks skyward. He lets his body sag against the cold automobile as his eyes shut and he breathes out. Stiles' scent is distinct—one Derek knows well. It's spicy, high strung, and almost always wrought with unmanaged nerves. It normally simmers with an underlying layer of excitement, with energy and a small, rosy tinge of happiness. Now, however … Now it smells of blood and desperation; of terror and pain and self-loathing. The energetic, rosy smell has soured into one of desolating darkness. Derek knows that it's the nogitsune's scent, clinging to Stiles skin like a disease, mixing with his natural smell; muddying it.

Derek doesn't like it; _detests_ the way the dark spirit crawled inside of Stiles—the way it _changed_ him inside and out.

Stiles' boyhood innocence is gone. Tarnished—ripped away from him without his consent. The nogitsune left Stiles with an open, gaping hole in his chest. It left him with pain and chaos and strife; with guilt that shouldn't ever have been his to bear.

Derek understands. He understands what the emptiness _feels_ like. The all-consuming guilt and anguish of nine dead bodies and the creeping, suffocating smell of burnt flesh. He understands, but he can't _convey_. He can only stand there, silent as he watches Stiles—quietly waiting for him to break.

Stiles opens his eyes, as if he senses Derek's gaze. He tilts his head to the side and with the way his eyes thin, he's obviously annoyed. "I said I was _fine_, Derek," he snaps, the small uptick in his heartbeat giving him away.

_Fine_.

Derek hates that word.

"Right," Derek replies dryly. "Right, of course you're _fine_."

Stiles stands up straight and glares. "I don't like your tone," he says, fear and acidic turmoil clinging to his skin like the wisps of burning smoke.

"Keep telling yourself that," Derek says back, tone biting. He doesn't want to be harsh. What he wants to say is: _It's okay, I understand. You don't have to say anything_. But what comes out is a cold and almost mocking, "Maybe you'll actually start to believe it."

Stiles' gaze burns into him, filled with such aching, angry hurt. "Oh, yeah?" he says, words shaky as he curls his hands into fists. "What right do you have to say that to me? In case you haven't noticed, _Derek_," he seethes, "You're not exactly the prime example of how to deal with, with—" Stiles thrusts his hands outwards angrily, words failing him as his bites down on his lip so hard he draws blood.

Derek arches a brow, daring him to continue.

Stiles' eyes glaze over as he shuts down suddenly, face going slack. "We killed people," he says quietly, tone faint. "_I_ killed people."

"The nogitsune killed people." Derek says it like a fact, without inflection.

Stiles covers his eyes with the back of his hand and _laughs_. He laughs, the sound terrible as it wretches from Stiles' throat like a self-depreciating sob. "I _was_ the nogitsune, Derek. What about that don't you get? Jesus, _fuck_—there was a fucking reason it said _we, us_, I—I fucking let it in. I let it in and it _killed_ people. That's on me, Derek. That's on _me_," he yells, voice cracking as his face goes red and tears of anger well up in his eyes. He's shaking now, the awful smell of his distress premating in the open night air.

Derek takes a silent step towards Stiles and Stiles holds up his hand, shaking his head as the first tears spill down his cheeks. "No," he croaks. "Don't, just—_don't_."

Derek ignores him in favor of continuing forward, boots crunching loudly against the gravel. He stops an arm's length away from Stiles and reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. He frowns, chest tight and uneasy. "Look at me," he says, echoing the words Laura had said to him the day he'd confessed what he had done. What he had let Kate Argent do. "It wasn't your fault." The words are delivered stiffly, so unlike the warm, kind way in which Laura had said them to him.

Stiles stares at Derek as if he's grown a second head, face screwed up and wretched. And then he laughs—it's a full belly laugh, one that makes him double forward and press his face into Derek's shoulder. Stiles body shakes as he continues to laugh, the sound tapering off into small, gasping chuckles. He turns his head, cheek resting gently against Derek's chest as he shuts his eyes. "You know," he beings, tone amused, "It's hella ironic that it's _you_ who's giving me the _it's not your fault, Stiles_ talk." He sighs, the way he huffs out a small laugh overwhelmingly fond. "You, Mr. Guilt Personified."

Derek rolls his eyes. "I'm working on it," he says as he lifts a hand to rest on the warm expanse of Stiles' back.

"Yeah," Stiles murmurs. "Yeah, me too."

Derek notices then, that Stiles' scent no longer smells sour. It's still weighted down but there it is, that spicy, rosy scent he's come to associate with Stiles' happiness.

"I wanted to thank you," Stiles breathes into the curve of Derek's neck. "For my jeep."

Derek feels exposed then, raw in the best and worst of ways. He doesn't say _you're welcome_, like he should. He only nods.

"I'm serious, dude," Stiles continues. He's quiet for a moment before he adds, "It was my mom's jeep."

_The Camaro was Laura's,_ he wants to say. But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything.

"Your chest is really nice." There's a beat of awkward silence. "I should really sleep," he adds sheepishly. "Like, a lot. Forever. Can I sleep forever? Is that allowed?"

Derek snorts, something warm and fond blossoming in his chest. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles smiles against the fabric of his shirt and, in that moment, Derek knows everything will be just fine.


End file.
